


for decadence is fatal

by Steel



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:44:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steel/pseuds/Steel
Summary: Elan Morin Tedronai attends yet another social gathering he could care less about until something happens that sparks his interest.





	for decadence is fatal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eirenne Saijima (ladypoetess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypoetess/gifts).



> Hello! I tried to include all the characters you asked for, and included a couple of cameos too, but my knowledge on the Age of Legends is a little rusty and I wound up focusing on two characters in particular. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Yuletide!

Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar was a woman of conviction as well as good taste, which was reflected in how she carried herself as she strode through the wide doors. Her dress was a deep burgundy of the finest silk, delicate golden scrollwork glimmering in the light of the nearby glowbulbs. The light glimmered in her sun-colored hair too, done up as it was in elegant curls that spilled over her bare shoulders. She attracted a number of looks, the crowd parting not-so-subtly as she strode across the elstone floor.

Beautiful as she was, it wasn’t what usually drew people’s attention to her. One would think that public servants were by and large common, in an Age such as this, and they would be right to think so. But Ilyena Moerelle had the reputation of being just _and_ fair. She would listen to both sides of an argument patiently before reaching a decision, and do so in a way that neither party felt like they had been treated unfairly. After all, there were always those who were always in need of arbitrating, no matter where they lived or what their background was.

Although... the recent rumor floating around that she and Lews Therin Telamon were _courting_ was no doubt on everyone’s minds that particular evening, considering this celebration was one of the arts. Gossip had a way of taking on a life of its own sometimes... _especially_ when it involved people as renown as Lews Therin and Ilyena Moerelle. 

Tearing his gaze away from the guests already flocking over to Ilyena Moerelle to engage her in idle conversation, Elan Morin Tedronai plucked a fresh goblet of wine off of a passing servingman. He took a small sip from it, mostly for appearance’s sake — even though he cared little about what people thought of him — and started to wander around the room, taking in the other guests.

His gaze first wandered over to the guest of honor himself, Cormalinde Masoon. His broad shoulders and strong hands belied the delicacy and intricacy of his work when it came to his spinglass sculptures. He was standing next to one of his more stylized pieces — one of his most _famous_ pieces, in fact — of two women with their hands clasped together, caught mid-dance. Elan Morin had to admit that the work was exquisite; Cormalinde had managed to capture the ruffles in cloth in such a way, it made it seem as if the spinglass _was_ cloth. Rumor had it that tonight was the night that Cormalinde would gain his third name, in honor of his work being chosen to be displayed at the Ansaline Gardens. And yet, the man had a humble air about him, ducking his head shyly when guests engaged him to titter and fawn over his work. Elan Morin recognized Joar Addam Nessossin among them, the musician smiling sheepishly and looking very out of place as he shook Cormalinde’s hand.

Elan Morin tore his gaze away, picking out Tel Janin Aellinsar several feet further away, whose handsome smile and boisterous words had the small number of guests around him laughing appreciatively. His gaze moved on to find Ceran Tol. The artist was already tipsy and flirting with Yanet Shaseen, who seemed to only be paying the barest of attention to his advances. Her eyes kept flickering over to another group, and Elan Morin followed it to spy Torhs Margin, deep in discussion with Kamarile Maradim Nindar. She was not of the arts; most likely, she had come to this event as someone’s guest, probably Torhs’.

On closer inspection, it appeared as if Torhs was droning on and on about whatever topic had caught his fancy that evening, expression serious, while Kamarile Maradim listened with an air of impatience. She was eyeing the goblet in his hand like it was a _coreer_ ; either he was pretending not to notice her steely gaze, or he really _hadn’t_ noticed yet. Elan Morin found that hard to believe, though; Torhs was no fool, and Kamarile Maradim was known for her astere and ascetic way of life. Her beauty easily surpassed Ilyena Moerelle’s, and yet her dress was a simple white, with no scrollwork or lace whatsoever. To her, alcohol was an unnecessary indulgence, as were these social gatherings, and yet...

And yet, they were all slaves to the comings and goings of society. Even though the opulence and grandeur to these festivities, often as they occurred, were unnecessary and ultimately ephemeral. Society was on the decline, even if no one else around him could see it. Except perhaps for Kamarile Maradim, though her ways of combating it were... misguided, at best.

Elan Morin took another sip of wine, sighing softly. These celebrations were always so decadent, there never seemed to be much point in them besides making a required appearance, so long as you wanted to keep tongues from wagging. Rumor had the unfortunate habit of spreading like wildfire, especially among higher circles. If you declined an invitation, a dozen or so tales of scandal and intrigue popped up. Elan Morin did not care what was said of him — once, he had; once, but now he knew better — but he despised having people come up to him, bold as brass, with questions of where he’d been at the last event. Or, worse, _who_ had kept him from attending.

As if on cue, his eyes fell upon Barid Bel Medar, smiling politely as Lews Therin Telamon himself stood by the tall man’s side, clapping him on the shoulder and laughing about something or other. Lews Therin steered him towards Ilyena Moerelle, his expression immediately sobering. He greeted her with the utmost seriousness, inclining his head politely. Barid Bel did the same, though it was clear after initial introductions were through that Ilyena Moerelle and Lews Therin only really had eyes for each other. Barid Bel needed rescuing, it seemed.

Elan Morin smiled into his goblet, draining it with one last gulp before setting it on a passing servingman’s tray. That was when his eyes caught swift movement from the corner of his eye, a streak of black and white moving quickly towards Lews Therin and the others. Mierin Eronaile, he realized. Conversation swelled dramatically around her, other guests taking note of the researcher’s warpath and easily putting together what it meant.

Before he could change his mind, Elan Morin moved to intercept her, blocking her path in a few quick strides. “Mierin Eronaile,” he greeted, his smile not reaching his eyes. Mierin came to a sudden stop, her white skirts swishing around her ankles. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list,” he went on, as if she hadn’t almost collided into him.

“I don’t have time for you.” She started to step sideways, to move past him, but he blocked her path again. Mierin’s eyes flashed first in surprise, then fury. Her beauty easily surpassed both Ilyena Moerelle’s _and_ Kamarile Maradim’s, but right now her expression was twisting that beauty into something dark, something ugly. “ _Move_ ,” she commanded, voice like ice.

“You do realize that if you do whatever it is you intend to do, your reputation will suffer,” he pointed out, voice patient but firm. Reputation was everything in this Age.

“I don’t _care_ ,” she snapped, starting to move past him again.

Elan Morin’s surprise at such a brazen statement did not last long. He blocked her path once more, smile unkind. “Even if it makes Lews Therin think even _less_ of you?”

Mierin recoiled as if he just slapped her, mouth opening and closing in silent outrage. Elan Morin plucked two goblets from a passing servingman’s tray — they always seemed to be around just when you needed them, he thought dryly — pressing one into Mierin’s hands. She took it without thinking, then seemed to come back to herself and glanced down at the goblet, as if seeing it for the first time. Elan Morin took a moment to risk a glance over his shoulder, his gaze meeting Barid Bel’s across the room. The man gave him a look he couldn’t read, even as he silently stood near Ilyena Moerelle and Lews Therin, like one of Cormalinde’s sculptures.

“Think, Mierin,” he cautioned, touching her shoulder and steering her in the opposite direction. “If you seek to regain Lews Therin’s affections, doing so at a public event is not the way to do it.”

“It would _hurt_ him,” she whispered fiercely, taking a generous sip of wine. "Hurt his _reputation_. Hurt _her_ for turning on—” Mierin cut herself off, as if suddenly realizing who she was talking to. “What do _you_ care?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t,” he admitted, shrugging casually. “Not about _you_ , that is. Not about Lews Therin, either. If you wish to hurt his reputation” — he allowed himself a small, amused huff — “there are... _other_ ways to do it.”

Mierin’s eyes narrowed. “I did not realize you held Lews Therin in such _high_ regard, Elan Morin Tedronai.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

“Oh, the man is arrogant, and terribly so.” He felt Mierin stiffen beside him, as if she was gearing up for an argument. “But we’re all arrogant, in our own way. We could always benefit from some humbling.”

“Then why stop me at all?” she demanded, eyebrows furrowing. “If you want him to be _humbled_ as you claim, you could have let me carry on. Carry on without smearing your _own_ reputation by associating with me.”

“Because it amuses me,” he said, tapping his glass lightly against hers before taking a long sip. Of course, he had other reasons. Ilyena Moerelle was an unwitting participant to Mierin’s ire, and Barid Bel... well, he had plans for the man. “You’ll get your chance to prove Lews Therin wrong, I’m sure.”

“We hardly even _know_ each other,” she pointed out, stopping. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, the ornaments in her hair sparkling in the light of the nearby glowbulbs. “For all I know, you’re _toying_ with me. Maybe you’ll go straight to Lews Therin later and _laugh_ about all this.”

Elan Morin smiled, but it was more a tug of his lips than a genuine smile. “Like I said,” he began, draining his wine. “Lews Therin could benefit from some humbling. But giving society _more_ whispers to fling against you, more fuel for the fire?” He shook his finger, setting his goblet aside. “No... I think society would benefit more if it realized that its decadence was _fatal_ , don’t you think?”

Mierin eyed him uncertainly, then glanced over her shoulder. Lews Therin, Ilyena Moerelle — even Barid Bel — were no longer in sight. She turned back to him, fingering her goblet with pale fingers, her dark eyes curious.

“I’m listening.”


End file.
